


Leather and Straps

by Linpatootie



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: M/M, Nightingale indulges him, PWP, Peter has a kink, porn porn pornity porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 01:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12048780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linpatootie/pseuds/Linpatootie
Summary: Peter finds himself deeply enthralled by Nightingale's leather riding gloves. Nightingale helps him sort it out.





	Leather and Straps

**Author's Note:**

> My wife made me do it.

Nightingale’s wardrobe was a thing of wonder for many reasons, ranging from the oyster shell Burberry coat to a vastly outdated set of hiking clothes I only saw once before quietly requesting Molly to burn it next time she happened upon it in the laundry. Nightingale’s selection of accessories, however, was particularly endless. Cuff-links, ties, pocket squares, scarves, the occasional ridiculous hat, and: gloves. 

Nightingale owned, and frequently wore, a set of leather driving gloves. I had no means of gauging their age, as Molly took good care of Nightingale’s possessions and the things showed almost no wear and tear. But the leather was soft, well-worn, a warm, almost reddish shade of brown, and they fit Nightingale’s hand like – well, a glove. They left the backs of his hands bare, a strap over the wrist, and especially paired with his nice suits and coats they made him look like the star of a vintage Hollywood flick. Such an unnecessary item in an age of AC and heated steering wheels, even if the Jag boasted exactly none of those features, but such a delightful aesthetic. They were so _him_ , and they were so damn enticing. 

I had had many a private thought about those gloves, is what I’m saying. How they would feel on my skin. How they would look, rubbing my thighs, wrapping around my cock. How tight his grip would be. Nightingale’s touch, but not Nightingale’s touch, separated by a thin, luxurious layer of leather. The thought made me positively quiver, like the overwhelmed protagonist in a cheap romance novel.

I wouldn’t necessarily call it a kink, but you know. If the glove fits. 

It was getting harder to keep my private little infatuation under wraps, though. Watching Nightingale put them on, right before starting the Jag, was near unbearable. I would feel myself growing hard at just the sight, shifting uncomfortably in my seat to hide it from him. Having to watch Nightingale’s hands grip the steering wheel, sliding over its surface, was torture. I dearly hoped Nightingale wouldn’t notice me staring, but if he did, he never mentioned it.

Of course, I was going to touch the things, eventually. And my eventually came when Nightingale ordered me to stay in the Jag when he himself popped underneath a shady little bridge just on the outskirts of Hampstead. Something about a troll who lived there who might have some information Nightingale was after, and I really oughtn’t follow him. Whether he was trying to protect me or protect the troll, I wasn’t sure, but Nightingale assured me he’d really be no longer than fifteen minutes and got out of the Jag.

Leaving the gloves behind on his seat. 

I was trying to keep watch, I really was, but the gloves were just... there. On the seat. Waiting to be touched by eager apprentice hands. 

The leather was still warm under my fingertips. I shivered as I idly stroked them a few times, looking at them from the corner of my eye, still maintaining the illusion of keeping an eye out for Nightingale’s return.

I picked one of them up, relishing the feel of the leather. They were ridiculously supple. I rubbed it with my thumb, bringing it carefully up to my face.

They smelled of whatever it was Molly used to take care of them, of Nightingale’s cologne, and, oddly, of cigarettes. I’d never caught Nightingale smoking but now wondered if he did, secretly, and if I would smell it on his fingers if I were to ever get close enough. Pressing the glove to my nose, over my mouth, I inhaled deeply, and sat there with my eyes closed, my dick so hard it hurt, and my head swimming with the onslaught of scent and, yes, even a hint of familiar vestigia.

The car door opened and the Jag dipped slightly as Nightingale sat down. “Well,” he said.

I looked at him, the glove still pressed to my face, my mind excruciatingly blank. All I could manage was to scrape my throat, and hold the glove back out to Nightingale.

Nightingale took it, giving me a most concerned look, and without another word started the Jag and drove off. I wasn’t quite hoping he’d drive us both headfirst into the nearest tree, as that would just be a waste of a stunning car, but I wouldn’t have said no to being struck dead on the spot by an angry river goddess or two right there.

I wasn’t sure where to go from there, but didn’t have to think about it for another three days. The thing with the troll turned out to be an actual lead, which thrust us headfirst into a chaotic series of events that may or may not have resulted in a brand new and exciting clash with Martin Chorley and the demolition of a nice Indian place in Shoreditch. Not my fault, I assure you. 

He was driving again. We’d just gotten back from a tedious meeting concerning the latest bit of property damage connected to yours truly, and had driven in vaguely irritated silence as we digested getting properly chewed out for the past forty or so minutes. The sun was setting over London, and Nightingale parked the Jag in the coach house just as the streetlights flickered on.

He turned off the Jag, but didn’t get out. His hands, clad in his infernal, beautiful gloves were still on the wheel, and he was staring out the front window.

“Now that that’s over with,” he said, and I started to feel the sense of dread that comes with knowing a conversation you really didn’t want to have just got started, “I feel we need to address... what happened last Tuesday.”

“Last Tuesday.”

He sighed. “Coming back to the car to find you all but sticking your tongue in my glove.”

“Sir, I assure you, my tongue was not involved in the incident.” My voice croaked as I spoke, and I was amazed I managed words at all, let alone a perfectly coherent sentence.

He actually smirked a bit, even if he still wasn’t looking at me. “Then what, pray tell, was it you were _doing_?”

I hesitated. I weighed my words. I considered jumping out the car and making a run for it, and wondered if he’d chase me down if I did. Then, I did what I always did, which was being painfully honest because, let’s face it, it was all I was ever capable of being with my governor. “I really like your gloves, sir.”

One of his eyebrows rose up and now he did look at me, slowly turning his head. His hands were still on the steering wheel. I was trying really hard not to stare. “You like my gloves.”

“Yes.”

“Enough to... fondle them in my absence.”

Oh, fuck. “Well. Yes. Apparently. I swear that it’s never happened before. Or since. I’m so sorry. They’re just so soft. Sorry.”

He kept looking at me now, quietly, for a few seconds. I couldn’t possibly figure out what he was thinking, but he was putting things together in his head, and I wasn’t entirely sure good things would come of this.

“Is this... liking... of a sexual nature?”

Oh, fuck, fuck. “I would appreciate it if we could maybe stop having this conversation,” I said.

“It’s rather inappropriate, isn’t it?”

“This conversation? Yes. The glove thing too, I suppose, but if we just pretend it never happened...”

“And quite new to me, I must admit, and I did think I’d seen it all after all my years... do you feel this way about leather gloves in general, or just these ones in particular?”

“This situation really doesn’t need those kinds of specifics.” I squeaked my way around the words, my hand already loosely on the door handle.

“Or is it me?” 

His question dropped into our disjointed conversation like a big brick through a shop window. I gave him a panicked look, he drew his own conclusions, I wondered how long it would take me to find a new job, and then the bastard grinned. He grinned slowly, closing his eyes as he let his hands drop from the wheel to his lap. He grinned like a cat, a smooth predator considering a kill, and it took me a few moments to realise that my inability to form a coherent thought was probably due to all my blood being... decidedly elsewhere than my brain.

Fuck, fuck, _fucking_ fuck. 

“Peter,” he said, languidly, eyes open again and giving a dark, amused look. “What on earth shall I do with you.”

I had a list of suggestions, but as it turned out, he didn’t need any. With a deliberate, almost calculated movement, he slipped his left hand onto my knee. He left it there loosely for a few ticks, giving me the room to shake him off if I wanted to, but when I didn’t he rested it fully. The weight of his hand was bizarre, heavy, my entire body hyperfocused on its presence. 

He squeezed, one finger at a time, his thumb pressing into the outside of my knee, and if I hadn’t been sitting in a very comfortable seat I’d have probably buckled to the floor. 

I had my hand still on the door handle, and realised I was now clutching it even if I had zero intention of opening the door any longer. I simply didn’t know how to make myself let go, like feeling the plastic was the only thing telling me this was all really happening. Nothing will ground a man like a Mark 2 Jaguar, let me tell you. And glad to be grounded I was, when Nightingale smoothed his gloved hand over my knee, and slid it up my thigh. Without even thinking about it I parted my legs further, and he took the invitation and slid his hand onto my inner thigh. 

I felt every point of pressure, his four fingers, his thumb, the pressure insistent and warm. I wasn’t looking at his face, I couldn’t possibly bring myself to. Instead I focused on his hand, on the contrast of the leather versus the black fabric of my trousers. I did hear his breathing however, even over the static, aroused hum in my ears. He was breathing fast, shallow breaths, and I didn’t quite know what to make of that at that precise moment so I chose to make nothing of it at all.

His pinkie brushed the bulge in my trousers, and I inhaled a stuttering breath. My entire body was burning, like I was running a high fever, and when he cupped me through my trousers I worried for a moment I’d come then and there, embarrassingly, just from that.

I didn’t. I could practically hear the grin as Nightingale spoke. “I’ve never had anyone respond to me merely fondling them a bit like this before. You look like you’re about to swoon.” His voice was husky, which I’d never heard it be before. 

“I feel like I’m about to swoon,” I said. He turned in his seat, and his right hand slid onto my thigh too, wasting no time to slide up and undo the button my trousers. “Fuck,” I added, for good measure. He chuckled quietly, and I could feel his breath brush my ear. 

He had me out of my trousers in no time. Not his first time manoeuvring another man’s cock out, this was, and that idea turned me on, impossibly, even more. Experienced hands. Beautiful, slender, experienced hands, in expensive leather gloves. His left hand curled around my prick while his right slid back to my thigh. He wasn’t playing around – his grip was firm, tight, and while he started off slow he was quickly tugging me off with swift, practiced strokes. The hand on my thigh squeezed in an erratic rhythm, completely opposed to the hand on my prick, and his breathing had gotten harder.

He was getting off on it. 

The leather of the gloves was smooth and warm, the pressure of his fingers through it amazing. It looked indescribable, and I couldn’t stop staring at his hand moving up and down, and up and down, and up and down. I felt my orgasm building up and did the best I could to stall it, the muscles in my legs tensing up to the point where his fingers still digging into my thigh actually hurt. 

It somehow only made the experience better, and try if I might, that orgasm was happening. It ripped through me, and I made the kind of sound I didn’t think I’d ever made with another person present before. I came all over his gloves, and my pants, and the seat of the Jag, as he expertly milked me for everything I was worth. I came down panting, tears in my eyes for some sexually repressed reason, and I sat and stared at the mess I’d made as I tried to make sense of what happened. 

He held me in his gloved hand as I softened. Finally, I dared to turn my head to look at him, and found him staring back at me with dark eyes. His pupils were gigantic, his cheeks flushed, and his lips parted. I was just considering kissing him, consequences be damned, when he beat me to it.

He kissed me hard, noses pressing together, lips caught between teeth. There was urgent desire in that kiss, and something that tasted like he’d been repressing the urge for a longer time than I ought to probably ask him about. I kissed him back, of course I did, and knew that, gloves or no, I really did want to do this again sometime.

He leaned back, looking me over once more, then carefully peeled said gloves off those amazing hands of his. “Peter,” he said, placing them on my knee, sticky side up, “Do make sure you don’t leave any stains on the upholstery.” 

And then he was out of the car. I saw him adjust himself in his trousers, shamelessly so, before padding out of the coach house, twirling his cane once as he did. I wondered if he was risking blue balls just for the sake of that exit, and decided that, yes, he probably was. Worth it, though, as my insides were exploding with something I very keenly avoided classifying as butterflies. 

Grinning, I finally did open the car door myself, and got stuck in the seatbelt trying to get out.


End file.
